


The Marble Not Yet Carved

by LydianNode



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Boarding School, Corporal Punishment, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED THEN PLEASE READ SOMETHING ELSE AND HAVE A NICE DAY, Implied Non-Con, Language, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Suggestion of drug/alcohol abuse, implied abuse of a minor, no explicit anything, sort of time travel but it's complicated, suggestions of abusive behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-15 17:12:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18503422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: "The marble not yet carved can hold the formOf every thought the greatest artist has."--Michelanglo Buonarroti, tr. Elizabeth JenningsMunich, 1981: Brian wanted to know what made Freddie Mercury tick. Be careful what you wish for, darling.He wanted so badly to understand why Freddie had let himself be led into such a dire predicament. Why would he undermine his success for the sake of mindless little toadies who didn't appreciate him? Why would he allow himself to be abused? Why couldn't he see that he was worth so, so much more?They weren't comforting thoughts.Opening Door Does Not Alter Time. If only it could. If only he could open the door and go back...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So as @royaltyisshe64 and I discussed Baby!Freddie for her wonderful story, [Pretend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18071720/chapters/42713609), we joked that it was a shame that Brian couldn't time-travel back to Freddie's boarding school days and be his maths teacher/guardian.
> 
> Then I started writing and couldn't stop.

14 June, 1981  
Munich 

The studio was named "Musicland" but there didn't seem to be much music to be made. At least not by Brian. 

He tried to participate, offered himself as guitarist or pianist or vocalist or Guy Who Taps On Something Roger Can't Reach Behind His Kit, but to no avail. Dance music, disco music, whatever they called it, didn't have any use for rock guitar. Instead of singing her siren songs for Queen, Red Special rested in her stand, gathering dust and flecks of ash from Freddie's careless smoking. Instead of making music Brian was sat in the control booth, trying not to look at the clock, trying not to look as hurt as he felt. 

There was pain in his heart, no matter how he attempted to assuage it with logic. Here he was, about to turn thirty-four, reduced to asking his own band if he could be allowed to play. 

"We don't need guitar on this," John had said before pulling out his own guitar and playing it. 

"I don't need help programming a drum machine," Roger had told him, then seconds later he turned to John and asked for his input. 

Using the rational part of his mind, Brian could understand the two of them wanting more independence. They'd been made "men of the house" far too young, after all, when John's father had died and Roger's had become so abusive that his mother divorced him. Then they had been the youngest members of a hugely successful rock group when they were barely of age, giving them even more freedom despite Freddie's mother-hen tendencies. Over the years their songwriting had matured and their musicianship was flourishing, so it made sense that they wanted less influence from either Brian or Freddie. 

Except that they still very much wanted Freddie. The three of them were thick as thieves, planning and singing and playing and putting their ideas on tape. 

It was only Brian being set aside, a toy once favoured that was now discarded. 

Freddie had a new favourite toy altogether: Paul Prenter. The man's oily obsequiousness made Brian's stomach knot up. Paul was constantly around Freddie nowadays, not so much a shadow as a devil on Freddie's shoulder. As that weren't enough, with Paul came a parade of truly dreadful men and even worse drugs. Brian hadn't seen the actual sex, thank God, and had only seen the after-effects of the drugs, but the toll Paul and Munich were taking on Freddie was incalculable. 

Prenter and his hangers-on were bastards merely using Freddie for his money, taking advantage of his incredible generosity by way of extravagant parties, lavish gifts, and money that flowed like champagne from a fountain. Freddie gave with his wonted selflessness but there was no question of any reciprocation. 

Freddie was being used, plain and simple. That was the sole thing Brian, Roger, and John managed to agree upon. Brian just couldn't comprehend why John and Roger just didn't seem as tormented about the way Freddie seemed to think it was normal, why they shrugged and said, "Well, it's Fred, so who knows?" 

How could they possibly think such a thing? Brian knew, and they all knew, that Freddie was a force of nature, an amazing, loving man with boundless energy and limitless talent. How could "who knows?" be all that they had to say about a situation that was so clearly destructive? 

How could they not understand Brian's dismay that Freddie was settling for the disco sound, something so easily created, when he was capable of something so much more complex and beautiful? 

Freddie was amazing, and Brian respected and loved him. He worked best when Freddie was at his side, and craved his ingenuity as much as he craved his approval. 

As much as he craved his love. 

"I can put some backing vocals on that, if you like," Brian offered when Freddie came into the control booth for playback, Paul following at his heels like a faithful puppy. 

Paul lit a cigarette and took a puff before handing it to Freddie, placing it between his lips like a secret kiss. Freddie filled his lungs with the smoke and shook his head. "This doesn't need backing vocals," he said without meeting Brian's eyes. 

Without their music, there was no love. There was no connection between them anymore, no driving force to invent new sounds, no unified vision for what the band could be. Without that symbiosis, Brian would dry up and blow away like dust, like the remnants of cocaine that Freddie didn't completely clean up. 

 “Sounds like you don’t need me.” 

Silence. 

No, not silence, but something worse: the sounds of other people doing things that didn't involve him. He was excluded from everything that made him feel whole, the three people who meant the most to him as a musician turning their backs on him, shunning him, reminding him of everything he once had that was now lost. A sudden pain in his chest made his eyes water and he covered his face with his hands until he could control himself again. 

 _Fuck this._

He stood up and walked over to where his guitar waited for his touch. "Sorry, old girl," he murmured as he lifted the much-loved instrument and put it in its case. "We're not wanted anymore." 

Brian knew he hadn't spoken loudly enough to be heard, but a small, fluttering hope remained that someone, anyone, would ask him to stay. 

That hope was extinguished before it had a chance to come alive. 

Roger and John had their heads together over the synthesizer, picking out drum sounds. Freddie was in the booth with Paul and Mack, listening intently to something Brian wasn't privy to. 

He opened his mouth to say goodbye, then closed it again. There was no point. He could slip away and no one would know he was gone. Every step was agony as he walked out of the studio and shut the door between himself and the men he had thought of as brothers. 

What to do, now that his beloved music was lost to him? 

The taxi ride gave him a few minutes to think about it as he headed back to the flat. He longed for Chrissy, not without a pang of guilt. He needed her warmth and strength, for the way she would hold him close and not ask any questions. He was desperate to see Jimmy and little Louisa, to sniff the baby-scents of their heads and revel in their soft little hands and high, excited voices. 

Once inside the flat, he put his hands on his hips and tried to decide what to take home and what to leave for the roadies to pack up and send him. Would they even do that, once they realised that he wasn't part of the band anymore? Or would anyone even notice that he had left without a word of goodbye? Worse still, would anyone care? 

 _Yeah. Absolutely fuck this._

Brian dragged out his smallest suitcase and started dropping toiletries in it as he surveyed the contents of the closet. Everything had a Munich stench to it: tobacco and alcohol and the perfume of women whose names eluded him. Whatever he took home needed to be cleansed first. Purified. He tossed a few days' worth of jeans, shirts, and underwear into the suitcase, picked up his guitar, and headed for the laundromat down the street. 

Their roadies always offered to do his laundry for him, but Brian preferred performing the task himself. Apart from the odd, amusing fact that he could get a beer while he washed his clothes, he simply enjoyed being in the place. It was warm and clean, unlike the studios and bars that formed the band's life on the road. It smelled like home, like childhood, like the trips he'd made with his mum when he was a little boy. 

He longed to unburden himself to his mother, even if it meant that his father would find out and, finally, be able to say "I told you this would happen" in his darkest, most disappointed tones. 

 _Sorry, Dad._  

Brian bought a beer and some soap powder from the attendant and threw his clothes into the first available washer. All of his rock star sins would swirl down the drain, leaving no traces behind. Newly-baptised, his garments would not betray him. He could do a better job as a husband and father. Home. A real home, not buses and planes and fancy hotels and recording studios. God knows Chrissy and the kids deserved better than what he'd given them. In return they had blessed him with the purest love imaginable, and he'd shunted it aside in search of the love he thought Queen would bring him. 

What did he have to show for that fruitless search? Scars. On his arm, on his abdomen. In the depths of his soul. He'd carry the remnants of his friends forever, wounds that never quite healed. They'd been so damn young when they started out, they'd looked up to one another, protected and nurtured one another. Why did that have to change?

 _Oh, John._  
_Oh, Roger.  
_ _Oh, Freddie._

It was always the thought of Freddie that hurt the worst. In the dark hours when Brian had been at his lowest, he had always imagined that losing Roger, his oldest friend of the three, would be the hardest blow, but the changes in Freddie were what caused him the most pain of all. 

When the washer chimed, Brian took the soggy clothing out and shoved it in the dryer. The sign next to the change slot amused him, just as it had when he was a child: Opening Door Does Not Alter Time. 

Stress, the beer, and the warmth of the room made him feel oddly exhausted. He dragged one of the plastic chairs next to the dryer so he could lean against it. 

He wanted so badly to understand why Freddie had let himself be led into such a dire predicament. Why would he undermine his success for the sake of mindless little toadies who didn't appreciate him? Why would he allow himself to be abused? Why couldn't he see that he was worth so, so much more? 

They weren't comforting thoughts. 

Opening Door Does Not Alter Time. If only it could. If only he could open the door and go back... 

Warmth and vibrations lulled him to sleep. 

*** 

Warmth and vibrations woke him. 

Brian blinked himself awake, expecting to see his clothes spinning around in a dryer, but the sight through the glass didn't make any sense. It was landscape, wetly green, foreign. Impossible. Moving past his eyes in a blur. 

The seat wasn't plastic, and it wasn't stationary but jostling back and forth. The sounds around him were not of water and air but of metal on metal. 

Thumping. 

He was on a train. Was he so tired that he'd boarded a train and fallen asleep, having forgotten to call home first? 

Why was he dressed in a suit? Had he even brought a suit with him to Germany? 

And if he had, then why did the suit look like something his father would have worn? 

The train went through a tunnel and Brian caught sight of himself in the window as if in a mirror. His hair was short and slicked down the way he used to keep it in school, taming it down to mere waves. 

The shock brought him to full alertness. He looked around, recognising neither the people around him nor the language they were speaking. 

There was a newspaper on the empty seat next to him. Brian grabbed it, hands trembling wildly. The script was Devangari, he realised, even though he couldn't read it. 

What was happening to him?

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ticket. The printing on one side was Devangari, but on the other it was English. The destination was Panchgani.

The date was 5 September, 1956.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It had to be a dream. But it couldn't be a dream, not with the stuffiness of the train car threatening to choke him and the way he was being jostled back and forth on the journey. Brian's dreams were never so vivid nor so linear. This was something else entirely.

Brian kept staring out of the window. The verdant hills sped past under an enormous blue sky. Farmers tended fields, animals grazed in the shimmering light. He was in India, somehow, and not in his own time.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to breathe normally. He'd had many an argument with John over the possibility of time travel, always arguing on the side of impossibility. Alternate universes, yes, another stream where one lived a parallel yet separate life, but time travel made no sense. So, he hadn't gone back in time but had...slipped somewhere else? But weren't alternate universes supposed to be entirely different? This looked like a normal train with normal people on it.

Only Brian was out of place.

He went through all of his pockets, methodically, hoping to find a clue. There was a leather billfold containing some pre-decimal UK currency and another currency he didn't recognise. There was a slim, slightly battered valise under his seat, which he opened with an excitement he hadn't felt since opening Christmas presents in his childhood. A United Kingdom passport sat on top, well-worn, and Brian opened it to find his face above some handwritten information. He was still Brian Harold May, born on 19 July—but in 1922. So he was still just about to turn thirty-four, but...

Dizzy with confusion, he set the passport aside and looked for other papers. He found a legal document and scanned the pages. It was a teaching contract, a temporary position at a St. Peter's School. The name tugged at the edges of his memory but he couldn't make himself focus. Nothing else in the case seemed to give much of a sign, so he closed it again and tried to gather his thoughts.

If it were really 1956, and he really were in India, then Chrissy was a young girl somewhere in England and they would never meet. Their children, their beautiful children wouldn't exist. Their beautiful souls, forever lost.

_Oh, God._

He was pulled out of his reverie by the train coming to a noisy stop at a station. The sign said Panchgani, which matched his ticket, so Brian stood up, stretched his legs, and made his way carefully to the platform. He saw a mixture of people, mostly Indian, and one rather stocky, elderly Englishman who clearly recognised him and waved him over.

"Mister May, hello. I recognised you from the photographs you sent with your resumé. I'm O.D Bason, the Headmaster of St. Peter's School."  
  
Brian took the offered hand and shook it, trying to look as if he weren't about to collapse from shock.

"Glad you were able to make it at such short notice. Hard to find a competent supply maths teacher, but you came with high references from John Matthai."

The name meant nothing to Brian but he smiled and nodded politely. Bason continued as he led the way out of the station. "One of our porters is picking up your bags and he'll meet us at the car. You must be exhausted after your journey."

Brian wanted to scream.

He took a seat in the back of the Ford Anglia, trying to glean something useful from Bason's words. "You'll be in Cornwill House. Room of your own, of course, although you'll be eating in the Great Hall along with the other teachers and the boys. We should be there in time for dinner."

"The texts I'll be teaching from—will they be available for me to look over tonight?" Brian asked. The question seemed relatively intelligent, and Bason appeared to appreciate it.

"Goodness, no moss grows under you, does it? I'll have them brought to your room after dinner. We'll introduce you tonight, then leave you to get organised."

The car pulled up to the beautiful old grounds of the school. Bason pointed to the stone carving over the main school building. "That's our motto: Ut Prosim. 'That I may serve.' We do try to teach our boys that they are not here just to learn but also to serve others. Many of them are from wealthy backgrounds and have been coddled to within an inch of their lives."

Brian had nothing to say to that. His own upbringing had been on the knife-edge of genteel poverty, but there was no way of knowing what "this" Brian's background had been.

"Our school mascot is the phoenix, eternally burning and rebuilding itself. It's a reminder to the lads that, while being at a school and away from their families is a hardship, they will be forged into something far greater."

The phoenix. Just that morning, Brian had been part of something with a phoenix as part of its symbol. He'd been burned out of it. Was this his chance to rebuild into 'something far greater,' or had he simply gone mad?

Once they parked in front of Cornwill House, Bason excused himself as Brian got out of the car and looked at the inscription above the door.

"Nil Desperandum."

Never Despair.

Seemed appropriate, if unlikely. The more Brian thought about it, the greater the likelihood that he had simply lost his mind. Nonetheless, he straightened his back and prepared himself to face whatever challenges lay before him.

The porter led Brian to a small, wood-paneled room. There was a single bed, a desk with a chair, and a small nightstand bearing a lamp. A washbasin and pitcher stood atop a narrow chest of drawers. Nothing of the rock star life here, Brian thought as he opened his suitcase and looked for further evidence.

He—or this Brian May, at least—was a student at the University of Bombay, doing the last of his work on a PhD in Applied Mathematics and taking weekend classes in astronomy. There was precious little other information. He found no photographs, nothing to let him know if he still had the same parents, or any parents at all, or even where he was from other than the general area of London.

Since there seemed to be no choice but to try and adapt to his new environment, Brian decided that eating dinner should be his priority. Perhaps food would help to clear his muddled head. Sighing wearily, he stepped out of his traveling suit and put on the clean one from his baggage. He poured water from the little pitcher into the bowl and used a flannel to wipe off some of the grime from his face. Looking at himself in the mirror was jarring. Of course the short, shellacked hair didn't seem familiar at all. But what truly flummoxed him were his eyes, clear and untroubled. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen his expression look so innocent.

Was he, the Brian May he knew, aging in an attic somewhere like Dorian Grey's portrait?

He wished he'd been more sober during those conversations with John.

John. In 1956, John was a little boy who still had his father. Brian and John would never meet. Never play together. Never argue. Never love one another like brothers.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Brian leaned on the chest of drawers, head lowered, trying to make some sense of what was happening around him. Before he had a chance to become any more agitated, someone knocked sharply on his door and he had to answer it.

A young man about Brian's age stood in the hallway, smiling engagingly. "Hello there, Mister May. I'm Sterling Lewis, World History." They shook hands and Brian looked into the man's blue eyes, reminded suddenly of Roger and feeling another horrible sense of loss. "I'm here to take you to the Great Hall for dinner, if you're hungry."

"I'd appreciate that. I'm still a bit...disoriented," Brian said. He'd never uttered a truer sentence in his life.

Lewis chatted briefly about the schedule for the following day, none of which really registered in Brian's befogged mind. He simply followed along, hoping he could remember how to get back to his room once dinner was over.

The Great Hall lived up to its name. It was indeed enormous, with a high cathedral ceiling and long, impressively carved wooden tables. Brian took a seat next to Lewis and a couple of elderly ladies who were paying no attention to him whatsoever, and scanned the room.

His first impression was one of shock at how many of the boys were very young. Some appeared to be no more than seven or eight years old. How terrifying it must be for them to be away from home at such a tender age, Brian thought, and his heart sank in sympathy.

The students were from a mixture of races, but did not appear to have segregated themselves in any way other than age. There were little ones who sat very close to one another, giggling during Grace, and older ones trying to look more sophisticated as they held their water goblets like wine glasses and affected a bored outlook. Another group was clearly celebrating something, and with a delighted shout they pulled one boy out of their midst and swung him by the wrists and ankles as he laughed.

Birthday bumps. Brian remembered his own, with his schoolmates, and for the first time since he awoke into this new world he had a genuine smile on his face.

The crowd of boys let the celebrant sit back down, at which point Brian began eating everything on his plate other than the steak. The proximity to meat made him feel even queasier, but he hoped to pass that off as simply being tired from the journey from...where had he come from? Oh, Bombay, that was right.

By way of Munich and twenty-odd years, but that was something to think about later.

The birthday boy opened a large parcel and leaned it over for his friends to see the contents. Oohs and aahs burst out, growing louder until Mr. Bason stood up and admonished them.

"Gentlemen, this rowdiness simply must cease at once. Take your seats and finish your meals."

"That lot's going to be yours most of the day," Lewis said as he speared a forkful of steak and brought it to his lips. "Nice lads, mostly, if a bit rambunctious." He eyed Brian's plate. "Aren't you going to have that?"

"Er...no." Brian pushed the plate toward Lewis. "I don't care for meat, actually."

"Oh! Be certain to pass that along to Mrs. Howard. She's in charge of the meals. Since so many students and a few of the teachers are Eastern, they make vegetarian grub that I'm told is quite delicious. They'll take care of you, no worries." He transferred the steak from Brian's plate to his own and gave him a wink. "Ta, mate."

"You're more than welcome," Brian said. He couldn't see the boys clearly from where he was sitting, but he noticed that the treats from the gift box were being distributed to everyone at the table. "Could I meet them, do you think? I'd like not to be a shock to them tomorrow morning."

"Oh, certainly, glad to help." Lewis pushed back his chair and led Brian to the middle tables. 'Good evening, gentlemen."

"Good evening, Mister Lewis," was the immediate response. The boys seemed hesitant to make eye contact, as if they expected to be reprimanded further, but Lewis just gave them a jolly smile.

"This is Mister May, who'll be your maths teacher until Mister Ellison returns from hospital. He's joining us from the University of Bombay and I know you will all make him feel welcome."

A few of the boys looked up but most kept their heads down as they chanted, "Good evening, Mister May."

Their discomfort tugged at Brian's heartstrings. He wanted to make them feel at ease, to the best of his ability, so he smiled at them and asked, "So, whose birthday are we celebrating tonight?"

Several fingers pointed at one small, slender boy. He rose and slowly, almost bashfully, lifted his head.

Brian took a step backwards, hand over his chest, and nearly fell over.

Those eyes. Brown, soft, clever, shy. He would have known those eyes anywhere. He'd looked into them a million times across smoky rehearsal halls and brilliant arena stages. He'd seen them light up with joy, had seen them filled with tears.

Freddie.


	3. Chapter 3

It was impossible.

The entire scenario was impossible, but what drove the point home was when Freddie put out his hand and let his thin fingers clasp Brian's in a handshake. "Bulsara, sir. Welcome to St. Peter's School." 

As Freddie spoke Brian heard the familiar lisp, exacerbated by the adult-sized teeth in the child-sized mouth. Freddie's upper lip, which he quickly covered with his hand, was stretched and chapped. It looked painful, but Freddie smiled anyway. 

Smiling through pain, just as he always did. 

Brian couldn't help but smile back at this young version of his beloved friend. He was so innocent, still, and all of the sweetness he would carry into adulthood was already in evidence. Freddie reached into the box and pulled out the last candy bar, a Cadbury Milk, the one he had obviously been saving for himself after having given all the rest of them away. 

"My mum sent me these, all the way from Zanzibar!" he proclaimed proudly. But instead of unwrapping the treat and eating it himself, he earnestly pressed it into Brian's hand. "This is for you, Mister May." 

Oh. 

"I couldn't possibly," Brian sputtered. "It's your birthday treat—you can't give them all away!" 

"Please," Freddie wheedled, a higher-pitched version of the charming, coaxing voice that Brian could never resist. "I want you to have it." He looked up at Brian through thick, black eyelashes, his little-boy gaze full of understanding far beyond his years. "Chocolate is ever so good for homesickness—I know what that's like, and it really does help. So...please, sir?" 

With all his aching heart, Brian longed to pull Freddie close and hold him. Obviously he wouldn't dare: this boy that he'd just met wouldn't understand. And it wouldn't relieve Brian's own pain, because the Freddie that Brian remembered no longer loved him. Instead he reached out and patted Freddie's black hair, mussing it slightly. "Thank you," he whispered. 

As he tucked this gift into the pocket of his jacket, distant bells began to chime. Lewis tugged at his arm. "Chapel," he said, as if that meant anything to Brian. "Gentlemen, time to line up." The boys did just as they were asked, perfect little automatons marching double file into the building's chapel. 

At first Brian was surprised that Freddie was not in the little choir, then he realised that of course no one could know yet just what a magnificent voice he would grow up to have. Freddie sat with some classmates, not paying much attention to the droning voice of the Reverend Someone-Or-Other who was holding forth on Virtue. It occurred to Brian that quite a few of the boys would be of some other faith than Protestant Christian, and he wondered what their families were thinking to send them to this school. 

For that matter, why had Bomi and Jer sent Freddie here? Brian tried to recall a conversation over tea, when Bomi had told the band about sending Freddie to boarding school. Perhaps there weren't any Zoroastrian boarding schools, or perhaps this was just the strictest and farthest-away place they could send their chimerical little boy. 

If Brian ever got back to 1981, he would have a bone to pick with Mr. Bulsara. 

If. He still had no idea how he got here, much less how he would get back. The alternative universe idea rattled around in his head, supplanted by a new thought. Perhaps he was meant to protect Freddie in this place, to keep him safe. But from what? What was Brian supposed to do, to learn, and how would he know? 

The chants and hymns sung in boyish voices made him think of Roger, who had been trained in exactly this type of singing. Roger had told him something about Freddie and boarding school, once, in a very drunken state on a bus somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. Brian closed his eyes, not in prayer but in an attempt to remember. 

It had been terrible, so terrible that Roger clapped one hand over his mouth as if to shove the words back in, and begged Brian never, ever, to let Freddie know that he'd been told. 

He couldn't remember. 

When Brian closed his eyes that night, surrounded by textbooks that he had only skimmed over, he kept prodding at his faulty memory. What had Roger said? Brian had been drunk at the time, and possibly a bit stoned as well, and nothing ever stuck to his brain when he was like that. What he'd give to talk to Roger right now. 

Except that, right now, Roger was a primary school boy who'd never heard of Farrokh Bulsara, let alone Freddie Mercury. 

Whatever was going on, whatever had led Brian to 1956, Freddie must be the catalyst, Brian told himself as he let exhaustion carry him into slumber. 

*** 

The next morning, Brian's first thought was that he would awaken back in the laundromat with a stiff back from being propped up against a dryer. He eagerly opened his eyes and found himself still in 1956, still in his little room, still surrounded by maths texts that he was expected to teach today. 

Bugger. 

He dragged himself out of bed and down the hall to the communal shower. The water was only lukewarm and the soap was hard and without fragrance, but he was so relieved to be completely clean that those were mere inconveniences. He dressed quickly, deciding to skip breakfast and only take a cup of tea to his classroom. 

Many years ago, before Queen took off, he had taught maths in a comprehensive school. This wouldn't be too terribly different. At least, he consoled himself, he wasn't teaching science or history and therefore wouldn't have to worry about teaching things that hadn't happened yet. 

He had no interest in being burned as a witch. 

The first classes were simple, groups of young boys learning basic skills. He enjoyed watching the light of comprehension dawn in the faces of his pupils as they grasped one idea and learned to apply it to a set of problems. One apple-cheeked boy with solemn hazel eyes reminded him so much of his own son that he had to take a moment to blink back tears. He hoped that in whatever universe Jimmy had been born, that his father was kind and loving. 

It was the third class, held after the lunch break where Brian met Mrs. Howard and explained his vegetarianism, where Freddie and his classmates came in. Lewis was right in that the group was rather rambunctious, but they asked clever questions and seemed to enjoy Brian's fast pace. 

Freddie, however, was quiet. He was polite and mostly attentive, only looking out of the old-fashioned mullioned windows once in a while, but he didn't say anything. Eventually Brian called on him to define a term, and Freddie rose with reluctant diffidence. 

"A supplementary angle is either of two angles whose sum is one-hundred-eighty degrees," he said, carefully enunciating around the dreaded lisp. 

"Correct," Brian told him with a smile that suddenly turned sour when he heard a mocking voice. 

"Sssthit down, Bucky."

There was a general titter and some more repetitions of the horrid nickname. 

Freddie's face went scarlet and he bit his lip, covering his mouth with his hand, as he sank back into his seat. The boy seated behind him put a consoling hand on his shoulder, but Brian was not so easily comforted. 

"Silence," he said quietly but firmly. He stood up, well aware that his height worked to his advantage as he surveyed his pupils. A few of the boys had the grace to lower their heads in shame, but one met Brian's gaze with unnerving steadiness. He had an angular face with unpleasantly narrowed brown eyes and sleekly combed brown hair. He reminded Brian of some of the less savoury record executives he'd encountered in his other life. 

Brian walked to the boy's desk and pushed his textbook aside. There, hidden beneath a notebook, was the very candy bar Freddie had given him the night before. "Is this how you repay a kindness?" he asked, his voice low and controlled. "What's your name, young man?" 

The boy stood up. If he felt cowed or nervous, it didn't show in the way he held his head up. "Richards, sir." 

"Richards, we appear to have got off on the wrong foot today. I will not tolerate childish cruelty in my classroom, is that understood?"

The response of "Yes, sir," somehow carried an undercurrent of premeditated sarcasm that made Brian remember why he hadn't wanted to make a career of teaching. 

"Sit back down," he instructed, then he walked over to Freddie's desk and put the candy there. "Don't squander your gifts on people who don't deserve them." 

He had said that to Freddie a hundred times in another world, only to hear "Oh, darling, you worry too much" in return. The feeling of déjà vu that flooded him made his vision swim for a moment. When it cleared, he saw Freddie looking up at him with his heart in his eyes. 

Brian had missed that look more than he could ever express. 

He cleared his throat and forced himself back into the present, which was really the past, and he smiled to himself as he asked, "Now, who can explain reflection symmetry?" 

*** 

Although a full's day of teaching was tiring, it passed without further incidents. Brian changed for dinner and met up with Lewis again. Mrs. Howard had been true to her word and worked up a lovely vegetarian noodle dish for him, and he gratefully tucked in. Eventually he realised that other teachers were expecting him to make conversation, so he put his fork down and nodded at his dinner companions. 

"Good evening, dear," said one of the two elderly women he'd seen the night before. "I'm Mrs. O'Shea. I teach piano and music theory here. I believe our Mr. Bason says you're a musician yourself. Is that so?" 

What? What did he do or play in this life? What if someone handed him a guitar and this Brian didn't know how to play it? He dabbed at his mouth with his serviette to buy himself some time. "Oh, I dabble a bit," he said quietly as he formed guitar chords with his left hand. Yes, he could do that. "Guitar, mostly." 

"How lovely!" Mrs. O'Shea reminded him a great deal of the various grandmotherly creatures who had tried, with limited success, to teach him the fundamentals of piano. "We used to have one or two guitars lying about, but I've no idea where they could be these days. They've gone a bit out of fashion, haven't they?" 

Brian hid a smirk by taking a sip of water. That's what someone would tell the Beatles in just a few years. 

Perhaps he should go to Liverpool and hear them... 

No, that could be catastrophic, if amusing... 

"...and of course the older boys are expected to play on our recitals, but a few of the younger ones always surprise us." 

He had missed the first part of the conversation and had to spend a moment catching up. "How many of the younger ones do you think would be ready?" 

"Oh, dear, just a handful. Most of them can't sit still long enough to get any serious practicing done, and just TRY to make them use a metronome..." 

Brian had been equally guilty. The only use he'd had for the family's Taktell metronome was as a toy for Pixie, the black-and-white cat who had been his constant companion. 

Was Pixie alive in this universe? Did she have a warm home? Enough food? 

"...but he has such natural talent. You really should come watch." 

Damn. 

"I'm sorry...?" 

Mrs. O'Shea pointed to the center table. "Young Master Bulsara. He has exceptional abilities. Have you met him? His Christian name...well, I suppose not CHRISTIAN, but his FIRST name is actually Farrokh, but he goes by Freddie these days." She folded her serviette neatly. "He has an hour's practice time scheduled this evening. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to listen? I'd love your opinion on his playing." 

There had been so many long nights when the sound of Freddie's piano was the only thing that could soothe him. He hadn't heard it in years, not played TO him the way he'd heard it in the old days. 

Old days that hadn't happened yet. 

He wondered if he could invent a verb tense for someone from the future living in the past. But that sounded like something John would do, and he couldn't think about John anymore. 

"I'd love to," Brian said, and meant it. 

He didn't want to make Freddie nervous, so he stood in the doorway and watched from behind. Freddie dutifully took out the red-covered John Thompson book that Brian remembered without fondness and went through his exercises. He moved on to Hanon—Brian shuddered at the memory of those tedious études—and made surprisingly quick work of them. Everything Brian had played as a child Freddie's age, Freddie did so much better. He sat up straight at the keyboard, brow furrowed in concentration, and made the tiresome old exercises ring out like a carillon. 

Freddie glanced over his shoulder as if ensuring that he was alone. Brian tucked himself away, out of view, catching the merest glimpse of Freddie's full-on smile. He let his fingers fly over the keyboard, making music all his own. It was glorious. 

Brian exchanged a knowing smile with Mrs. O'Shea. If he were to be stuck in this universe, at least he'd have the pleasure of watching Freddie develop as a musician. It wouldn't be the worst life he could have. 

He felt a meaty hand on his shoulder and turned around to see Bason. There was a grimace on the old man's face as he said, "Come with me, May." The dropped honorific was a bad omen. "We need to have a discussion."


	4. Chapter 4

After fewer than thirty hours at St. Peter's School, Brian was being taken to the Headmaster's office. Surely that had to be some kind of record for a child, much less an adult. 

Bason closed the heavy oak door behind them and seated himself at his desk. He did not indicate that Brian should take a seat, so he stood with his hands at his side. 

_Shoulders back, son. And always look 'em in the eye.  
_

His father's words resonated through his head all these years later. Or before. Or...ever? Brian's head pounded. He breathed evenly through his nose, making a concerted effort to relax his jaw. 

"You disciplined a student in your Geometry class today," Bason said as he steepled his hands together. "Would you care to elaborate?" 

Brian was torn between relief and a sense that he was being led into a trap. "One student taunted another for his speech impediment, and then called him a cruel nickname. I told him that such behaviour would not be tolerated in my classroom, then went on with the lesson." 

"I see." 

Surely that would be the end of it. Or it would, in a reasonable world, and Brian had to remember that this world was not likely to be governed by what he considered reasonable. 

"Did you take something from the student you rebuked? Something in his personal possession?" 

"He had a candy bar, sir. One that was given to him by the very boy he had just mocked. I returned it to the giver." 

"It was not yours to take, Mister May." 

"I beg your pardon?" 

Bason unfolded his hands and placed them on the desk, palms down. "I realise that you are very, very new to our school, Mister May. And that your own early education may not have been as...refined, shall we say?" 

Brian's spine stiffened but he forced himself to remain silent. 

"Here at St. Peter's," Bason continued, leaning back in his chair as if preparing to lecture a wayward child, "we care for sons of some of the leading families in India, if not the entire world. And young Master Richards is the son of a very high-placed local official. VERY high-placed," he added, nodding sagely. "So it is in our best interests, which also means your best interests, that the boy and his father be completely...comfortable with our school. Is that clear?" 

Brian bit back several of the remarks he wanted to make, asking instead, "What course of action do you recommend I take the next time a student says something unprovoked and vicious?" 

"Boys will be boys, Mister May. I recommend that you remember this: their parents pay your salary. And also remember that, if anything like this happens again, your services will be immediately terminated and you will be put on the next train back to wherever you came from. Is that understood?" 

He could not prevent the rueful smile that crossed his lips. If only he _could_ be sent back where he came from. _  
_

"Is that understood?" Bason asked a second time, his voice laced with anger. 

"Absolutely...sir." Brian waited until he was waved out of the room, then turned on his heel and strode toward his quarters. The face he saw in his mirror, eyes narrowed and lips pinched in a tight line, reminded him of John's after Brian took his songs apart. 

_I'm sorry, Deacy.  
_

Brian shed his clothing as if it offended him, then crawled into bed with the covers pulled up all the way over his face. 

Sleep was long in coming, filled with vaguely sinister dreams. 

*** 

He was scarcely even dressed when Lewis knocked on his door, reminding him to come down for breakfast. Brian gave a last tug at his too-short hair and left without making his bed or putting away yesterday's clothing. 

"I hear you had a bit of a dressing-down from the old man," Lewis remarked kindly. "That Richards kid is a pestilence, but what can you do?" 

"Teach him some bloody manners, for a start?" 

Lewis threw his head back and laughed. "I'd love to see that. Come on, hurry, or there'll be nothing left but cold tea and burnt toast." 

Brian greeted Mrs. O'Shea with a smile as he took his seat. To his left was the other of two the older ladies, who introduced herself as Mrs. Blossom Smith. "Did you get to hear little Freddie Bulsara play last night? He's such a charmer. And quite the young artist, as well." 

Looking out at the sea of children, Brian easily spotted Freddie as he spread jam evenly over a slice of bread. He noticed that, without a box of candy to distribute, there were far fewer boys making friendly overtures to him. "I can imagine," Brian replied, his memory filling with sketches of the Queen emblem, costumes, and each of the members of the band. 

He could hear Lewis talking to another young teacher about "this silly new Eurovision contest thing." It was a jolt to hear "new" applied to the venerable, naff institution, and when Lewis derisively declared "It'll never last," it was everything Brian could do to keep from spitting his tea all over the tablecloth. 

Mrs. Smith touched his arm lightly. "It's so nice to see a new face around here, Mister May. Do tell me about your home, your family." 

No matter how many times he thought he was becoming used to his new situation, Brian knew he would never get accustomed to having to invent himself out of the whole cloth. He didn't know the truth of this existence, so he decided to make his story as close to his own life as he dared. "I'm from London, an only child. Maths and the sciences always interested me, so...I came to study in India, although I'm not really certain how that happened," he finished with a lopsided smile. 

"An only child? Truly?" Mrs. Smith smiled and poured him a fresh cup of tea. "I could have sworn you had brothers. There's something about you that makes me think of a family of boys, I can't imagine what." 

Brian took the tea and brought it to his lips, letting the steam bathe his face to cover any trace of tears. Perhaps they weren't really his brothers, but his love for Freddie, John, and Roger was real, even if he'd felt disappointed in the end. 

Now there was only Freddie, who would never know what they had meant to one another. He'd end up in London, right enough, and would form some band called Queen and Brian would always, always be on the outside, looking in. 

The first school bell broke him out of his dreary thoughts, leaving him to grab his books and rush to his classroom in the main school building. 

"Keep that nose clean, Mister May," Lewis stage-whispered as he loped past, and Brian felt himself loosening up. The first few classes with the younger boys helped to reset his thinking, to help "get out of his own head," as his bandmates always teased. He enjoyed working with the little ones, opening their minds and letting the skills grow. Sometimes he became so engrossed in teaching that he forgot to check the clock that, only yesterday, had ticked so very slowly. 

Freddie's class trooped in at their scheduled time. Richards made a point of brushing roughly against Brian as he sauntered into the room as if he owned it, but Brian decided that another skirmish was simply not worth the effort. 

The lesson for today included a lengthy worksheet, which would give Brian time to gather his thoughts a bit and grade the dozens of papers left behind by the previous class. He let the boys sharpen their pencils and walk around the room for a moment before beginning their tasks. "Do you think it's a bit stuffy in here—shall I open a window?" he asked to the evident relief of the boys who sighed happily. 

Brian opened two of the windows, letting in fresh autumn air and some much-needed sunshine. As he walked up and down the rows, offering assistance when he saw a child struggle with a concept, he noted that some of the boys were looking longingly outdoors, as if they scarcely ever had the chance to play. He felt perfect sympathy with them after only two days of being boxed up in these musty old buildings. How much worse it must be for the ones who stayed here month after month, year after year? "What do they grow in those greenhouses over there?" he inquired. 

One of the boys raised his hand and stood next to his seat. "Vaughan, sir. They mostly grow fruits and vegetables so we have fresh ones all winter long. But my favourite is the one with all the flowers." 

"Would be, yours and Bulsara's," said Richards under his breath. 

What the hell did that mean? Brian glanced at Freddie, who didn't seem to have heard. He was struggling to write neatly, his pencil held at an awkward angle. 

Brian smiled at Vaughan. "Well, after we're done working, perhaps we can take a walk out there and inspect the plants. We're due to start learning about the Fibonacci sequence shortly, and there's no better way to explain it than to look at nature." That seemed to cheer up most of the class, but Freddie made no response. 

Freddie set his pencil down, tears starting to form in his dark eyes. Brian went to his desk and began to ask what the matter was, when he saw blood on the paper. He leaned over Freddie, shielding from his classmates' curious eyes, and whispered, "What happened?" 

Freddie shook his head sharply. Brian recognised the gesture, the one Freddie always used when he didn't want to admit there was a problem. Roger was the one who could always cajole it out of him; there was a secret language between the two of them that Brian could never quite decode. But he knew that misdirection was one of Roger's preferred methods, so he reached for the worksheet and, when Freddie grabbed at it, he took Freddie's wrist gently. 

When he turned his hand over and saw Freddie's palm, he wanted to be sick. There were welts across the soft flesh, six lines, and blood seeped thickly out of two of them. Each stripe might as well have been a blow across his own heart. 

"I was caned, sir," Freddie whispered. "For drawing in class." 

"Who did this?" 

Again, Freddie shook his head. 

"Let me see the drawings. Please." 

Blinking back his tears, Freddie reached into his notebook and pulled out a worksheet from some other class. All along the border were fanciful creatures, phoenixes and fairies, drawn in loving detail. And dotted across the paper were spots of red: Freddie's blood. 

The room grew quiet as, one by one, the boys stopped writing and turned to look at the scene by the window. Freddie sat with his head bowed, Brian hovering over him looking very much like a phoenix himself as he craned his neck to examine the paper. All of the answers pointed to the only class it could have pertained to, and anger rose like flame in Brian's chest. 

World History. 

Sterling Lewis had done this unspeakable thing, had struck a child, had struck Freddie, HIS Freddie, had wounded his HANDS. 

Without a word to his astonished pupils, Brian rushed out of the room and flew down the corridor like a man possessed. Half-blinded in his rage, he scarcely took note of anyone he saw as he flung open door after door in search of the man who had committed this outrage. Teachers and students followed in his wake until he finally came upon Lewis' classroom and stormed inside. 

A boy from one of his morning classes, no more than eight years old, stood weeping in the front of the room as Lewis prepared to swat his hand with a long bamboo rod. Brian lunged forward to put his own body between Lewis and the child and grabbed the stick, holding it aloft. 

"Why are you doing this?" he shouted. "What could such a little boy possibly have done to warrant...this..." He trailed off, unable to find words hideous enough to describe what he had seen. 

Lewis seemed only mildly taken aback. "'This,' as you call it, is the only way to get their attention, May! You wanted to know how to fix their behaviour? Six of the best, that's how it's done, how it's always been done." 

"What? How is that...even possible? I took away a candy bar and got a formal reprimand, but you can BEAT them and nothing will be done about it?" 

"Don't be an idiot, May. Don't you get it? They won't peach if they get caned, because they know they'll be in trouble for what they did in the first place. Not like when someone like you uses some soft, namby-pamby method. This is the only thing they understand. It's the only weapon we have against them!" 

"Weapon?" 

Brian stared in disbelief at the man he had almost taken on as a friend. Out of his peripheral vision he could see dozens of stunned teachers and students, their inarticulate murmurings buzzing in his ears. Furious, heart pumping madly, Brian snapped the rod over his knee, breaking it in half, then flung the pieces across the room. 

An unnatural, ghastly silence filled the space around him until all he could hear was the pounding of blood in his head. As if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, he took the little boy's hand in his and led him back to his classroom. All of his students, even that miserable brat Richards, were standing in the hall with wide eyes and gaping mouths. 

"Outside. Now," Brian commanded briskly, leading his charges into the light of day.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Brian preferred the night sky to the day. Nighttime was predictable and familiar. Harsh sunlight hid the travel of the stars, obscured everything Brian knew and held dear about the cosmos. He blinked in the brightness of the early afternoon sun, surrounded by the unsettling, eerie hush of boys who had been shocked into silence. 

He understood their sense of disbelief; Brian lost his temper so seldom that the aftermath was always jarring. Disoriented and a little breathless, he was operating on mindless instinct. He had no real idea of where he was taking them, other than toward things that grew in the soil and turned their faces to the sun for nourishment. Without looking back at the school buildings, he brought the boys to the greenhouses. The repetitive pattern of glass panes and the orderly, perfectly-spaced seedlings helped to soothe the utter chaos in his brain. 

Entering with only a casual nod at the gardener, Brian found a plot of sunflowers and motioned for the boys to gather around it. He cleared his throat and pointed at one of the largest blooms. "As I was saying earlier..." 

_Earlier, before I lost my shit._

"...we're due to learn about the Fibonacci sequence this semester. Does anyone know what that means?" 

His own voice sounded tinny and foreign to his ears. He looked around to see if any hands went up, pleasantly surprised when one did. "Harrison, sir. A Fibonacci sequence is when a series of numbers is made up of the sum of the two preceding numbers." 

"Good quote, Harrison, but what does it MEAN?" 

Another boy raised a timid hand and waited for Brian to nod at him. "Batra, sir. If the first number is one, and the second number is one, the third number will be two because you add them together. Two plus the one before it is three, and three plus two is five, and so on." 

Brian smiled encouragingly. "That's right, very good," he said, not really registering some movement in the back of the greenhouse. Only when he had begun to point out the different ways to count spirals in the sunflowers did he notice that Freddie was not among the boys pointing out numbers. 

"This one's twenty-one!"  
"Thirty-four!"  
"Wait, is this...yes, it's fifty-five!" 

They were experiencing. They were learning. Brian envied them. What was HE supposed to be learning?  Why was he here? How would he know if he had accomplished his mysterious purpose? 

He felt a tug on his trouser leg. It was the younger boy he'd taken from Lewis' classroom, who had been clinging to him like a vine the entire time, and he was pointing urgently at the window. 

Bason. 

Brian adjusted his tie and shot his cuffs. It would be best to look presentable, after all. He cast a glance back at the boys before stepping out to meet his fate. He caught Vaughan's eye, noting that he looked pale and anxious. "Go get the gardener," he instructed. "You boys shouldn't be in here unsupervised—too many tools, too many chemicals." 

Richards started to say something but Brian impatiently cut him off. He heard something muffled about "But Mister Sanjay is..." but his own dread kept him from listening. 

"May, not once in all my years here have I have ever seen such rampant insubordination!" The man's face was florid. "To question another teacher's methods in front of his pupils, to take away the instrument of discipline—" 

"Discipline? Instrument?" Brian spat out. "He was about to beat a boy who didn't even come up to his waist! What sort of discipline do you call that?" 

Bason rubbed his forehead, which was perspiring freely despite the hint of autumn in the air. "You weren't privileged to attend a school such as this one, so of course you're not familiar with our methods." 

"Oh, but I am," Brian replied smugly. "I've read enough literature to recognise a Dickensian hellhole when I see one." 

"How dare you?" bellowed Bason, his visage turning such a mottled red that Brian wondered if Bason were meant to die of a heart attack that day or if the course of history would be changed. Bason opened his mouth and a scream came out. 

No, not from him. From a little shed behind the farthest greenhouse. 

Brian's long legs carried him swiftly to the source of the cry. Vaughan, still screaming, pointed at the hut and Brian wrenched the door open. What he found there was too horrible to comprehend. 

Freddie was on his knees in the dirt, covering his face with his hands and crying in heaving sobs. In front of Freddie was the gardener, Sanjay. 

His trousers were down around his ankles, and his penis was... 

Brian retched and leaned forward with his hands on his knees. This was what he had forgotten, what Roger had confided and then begged him not to mention ever again. 

_There was a gardener at the boarding school, a guy named Sanjay. He groomed the little ones, and his favourite was Freddie._

Why hadn't he remembered in time? Brian let out a frustrated, angry howl. He knew that this had been going on long before his arrival, but by God it was going to end now. He charged forward, knocking Sanjay off-balance, both of them crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Sanjay was muscular, but Brian had the advantage of long shins and bony knees, and he was able to shove his leg into his opponent's groin. 

Sanjay wailed in pain. Brian felt a sudden victorious thrill, followed by utter disgust at his own violence. Then he remembered what had triggered his actions, and a strange sensation of righteousness surged through his body. 

 _Was this how Roger felt that night in Oklahoma when he decked that arsehole homophobe?_  

The sound of two boys crying pulled Brian out of his own thoughts and he scrambled over to where Freddie was kneeling. "It's all right now, Freddie, it's over," Brian whispered as he clutched the weeping boy close. "He won't hurt you anymore." He held out a hand to Vaughan, who joined them, hugging Freddie and holding tightly to Brian's wrist. 

Brian looked up to see Bason and several teachers crowding the doorway. Their faces registered shock and dismay, and Brian wasted no time indicating where Sanjay lay, still curled up tightly and whimpering. "Is that part of your 'methods' as well?" he hissed. 

"Sort this out," Bason muttered to two of the teachers. "May, go directly into my office." 

"After I take care of these boys," Brian declared. He rose, bending over to scoop Freddie up in his arms and tuck the dark head under his chin. Vaughan grabbed his arm and the three of them moved quickly away from the greenhouses. "Is there a clinic?" Brian asked, only to hear Freddie let out a sharp cry and feel the shake of his head back and forth. 

"Not there," he sobbed. "Music." 

For an instant, Brian was so unsettled that he couldn't understand the word. He looked down at Vaughan, who stifled his tears long enough to say "Mrs. O'Shea." 

Of course. Someone he could still trust, someone Freddie could trust. Brian made his way through the huddled crowds of children until he heard the sound of Chopin coming from the music room. "Open the door for us," he told Vaughan, and moments later Mrs. O'Shea jumped up from the keyboard with her eyes brimming with tears. 

"Oh, what on earth has happened, Mister May?" she cried. "Here, sit down, let me..." She trailed off when she saw the wounds on Freddie's palm. "Dear Lord, no." 

"He was caned," Brian managed to say as he sat down with Freddie across his lap. "But there's more. I just...I just need a moment." He buried his face in Freddie's hair and took a deep breath. 

"Stanley, darling, go to Mrs. Howard and ask for tea."  
  
Brian realised after a few seconds that she was talking to Vaughan. Brian hadn't learned his first name, didn't know anything about him other than he seemed to be one of the only real friends Freddie had. And he'd be gone before he had the chance to get to know any of them. 

"There, he's out of the room now, you can tell me everything." The kindly woman began rummaging through a drawer, pulling out lengths of gauze and mercurochrome. "I've seen what their 'discipline' does to these children," she murmured. "Let me have your poor hand, Freddie, darling." 

Still shaking violently, Freddie mindlessly obeyed. Brian tried soothing him as Mrs. O'Shea disinfected and bound his injured hand. He knew that Freddie was having a panic attack—the signs were the same even though this Freddie was so much smaller—and encouraged him to breathe slowly. 

"Quickly, before little Stanley comes back," Mrs. O'Shea said through her own tears, "what else went on?" 

Blushing, Brian tried to figure out how to tell the elderly dear without shocking her to death. "There was an incident with the gardener. He...uh...he and..." 

"Oh, God, was he trying to coerce this poor boy into oral sex?" She cut a glance at Brian, smiling wryly at his discomfiture, and there was a sparkle in her brown eyes. "Don't be so shocked, dear. I might be old, but I'm not a nun. I've seen things you wouldn't believe." She tied the ends of the gauze neatly and brushed the hair away from Freddie's forehead. "There you are, sweetheart, you'll be right as rain in a few days. Mister May will take good care of you." 

Brian's heart sank. "I don't know how much longer I'll be here," he said ruefully. "I've mangled everything, and Bason's going to throw me out on my ear as soon as he deals with the gardener." 

"Ah. That's something a cup of tea won't quite fix." She put away her supplies and pulled a little table near Brian's chair as Vaughan—Stanley—returned, carefully bearing a small tray with a four cups of milky tea and a plate of biscuits. "But we'll certainly try." She helped to place the tray on the table, then handed a cup and a biscuit to Stanley before taking some for herself. "Why don't you and I go to the art room for a little while?" she asked. When Stanley nodded, gazing bleakly at Freddie and Brian, she took him by the hand and led him away. "I'll keep the dogs at bay as long as I'm able," she said over her shoulder with a conspiratorial wink. 

Brian smiled at her, grateful for her empathy and thoughtfulness, then turned his attention back to Freddie. "You should have some tea, Freddie. It'll make you feel better. Lots of sugar, right?" 

Nodding, Freddie wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his blazer. Brian helped him take the chair next to his and gently put a biscuit in his uninjured hand. He dropped several lumps of sugar into a teacup and put it in front of Freddie, then took a drink from his own cup. "Go on, have yours," he encouraged. 

Freddie took a little nibble, then set the treat aside and climbed out of the chair. He sank down to his knees in front of Brian, looking up at him with sweet, adoring eyes. Smiling sadly, Brian patted his head, then he froze in shock as Freddie reached for Brian's belt. He shot out his hand and grasped Freddie by the wrist, halting him. 

"I thought," Freddie began, covering his mouth with his free hand, "I thought you wanted me to...do what Mister Sanjay had me do. Isn't that why you saved me from him?" 

Brian's heart shattered and he could not stop a bitter tear from trailing down his cheek. "God. No. Freddie, that's not...oh, my God." He shoved his hands into his hair, missing the comfort of loose curls. "How can I make you understand? Here, sit back down and drink your tea." 

Freddie did as he was told, watching Brian curiously over the rim of his teacup. Sighing, Brian tried again. 

"I saved you...for you. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and you don't owe anyone anything. Not your possessions, not your heart, and certainly not your body." 

"But that's the only way they'll love me," Freddie protested. "No one's going to love me for just being me." 

"You're wrong," Brian said softly. "I know you don't believe me now, but trust me. Everyone's going to love you. You're not completely formed yet, but when you are..." He blinked back tears. "The whole world is going to love you, Freddie." 

A flush rose on Freddie's smooth, dark skin, and he broke his biscuit in half and tried to give it to Brian.

Laughing through his tears, Brian popped the cookie into Freddie's mouth. "If you don't remember anything else I say to you, please—" 

"There you are, May." 

Freddie, startled, put his hand on Brian's arm when Bason's voice tore through the room. 

"I have to go now, Freddie," Brian whispered. Freddie shook his head, tears falling down his face. Brian stood up and cupped Freddie's chin in his hand. "The whole world. I promise." 

He turned away, his chest burning with pain, and left the room, closing the door behind him so that Freddie would not hear what transpired. Bason scowled at him. "Sanjay is out. Evidently, this wasn't his first offense." 

"What about Lewis?" Brian asked. 

"He stays. You, on the other hand, will go. Because you prevented the...incident with Sanjay from proceeding to its highly unnatural conclusion, I am prepared to give you decent references despite your conduct. But leave you shall, and immediately." 

"I'll go and pack my things," Brian began, but Bason cut him off. 

"It's done. The porter is bringing the car around as we speak." 

With one last, longing look at the door separating him from Freddie, Brian followed Bason to the front door of the building.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note about the abusive gardener being a POC: that was not my invention. David Minns' book states that the St. Peter's gardener who abused Freddie was named Sanjay.


	6. Chapter 6

Brian's little valise and old, battered suitcase looked even smaller and shabbier compared to the grand stairs in front of Cornwill House. He tried to look around, to commit the place to memory in case he never saw Freddie again, but the barest glimpse of Bason's piggish face made him nauseous.

 _Nil Desperandum._ The motto engraved on the house seemed to mock him. How could he not despair, when he was about to be ripped away from the only person he knew from his previous life? How could he not despair, when he had no idea what to do when he got to Bombay?

How could he not despair, when he had failed to remain at Freddie's side as his protector? His pride and his temper had been his downfall, he realised, and the guilt overwhelmed him as much as the sorrow and exhaustion.

He heard the crunch of tires on gravel and saw the black Ford Anglia pull up in front of the steps. Sighing heavily, he was bending over to pick up his suitcase when he heard a different sound, that of childish footfall and a high, desperate voice.

"Mister May! Wait, please!"

Of course it was Freddie who raced toward him, arms outstretched.

Brian hugged him closely, wiping away the tears that streamed down the high cheekbones. "Ssh, Freddie, it's going to be all right."

"Take me with you!" Freddie cried, his anguished plea muffled against Brian's pounding heart. "Please, please, take me with you!"

"Bulsara, enough of this nonsense!" shouted Bason, but Freddie clung tightly to Brian's waist and Brian kept his arms wrapped around him.

"I wish I could," he said into Freddie's ear. "More than anything."

His words seemed to calm Freddie somewhat. He pulled away just far enough to look into Brian's eyes, soul to soul. With the saddest smile Brian had ever seen, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his Cadbury Milk bar, its wrapper somewhat the worse for wear. "You gave this back to me, and now I'm giving it to you. Because I want to. I WANT to." He put it in Brian's hand. "For the journey. To remind you of me."

"Oh, Freddie." Brian could choke back the sob but not the tears. He took Freddie's face in his hands, touching his cherished friend for the last time, and gently kissed his forehead. "The whole world is going to love you, Freddie," he whispered, then Bason stomped forward and tore Freddie out of his arms.

The porter then came for Brian, half-dragging him down the stairs and shoving him into the back seat of the car. Brian leaned out of the window as the car began to pull away. "The whole world! I promise!" he cried, then the car sped away and Freddie became smaller and smaller until he disappeared completely.

He wouldn't give the porter the satisfaction of seeing him weep. He held it in, breathing sharply, as he purchased a ticket to a place he didn't know and got on a train that would take him there.

Would the train take him to Bombay? Or would it, somehow, take him back to Munich by whatever supernatural force brought him here in the first place?

Brian wasn't much on prayer, but he did offer up one as he settled into his seat and the train pulled out of the station. _Please, take me back. I won't ever let anyone tear Freddie away from me again. Please.  
_

When the train pulled into a tunnel and the carriage was plunged into darkness, Brian finally allowed himself the luxury of tears until the train's warmth and vibrations lulled him to sleep.

***

The warmth and vibrations woke him.

He was terrified that he was in Bombay, or worse, some other place in some other unknown past. He didn't open his eyes, but he took a deep breath. Instead of stuffy train air, his nostrils were filled with the aromas of soap and clean linen.

_Please.  
_

He blinked, clearing his head, and found himself in the chair at the laundromat. His own laundry had been taken out and neatly folded, sitting tidily on a nearby table as if reproaching him for his neglect.

Oh.

He didn't need to look at his watch to know that many hours had passed. It was dark outside, and the attendant on duty when he arrived was long gone, replaced by a different woman altogether. Brian pointed at the clean clothes, and then at her. "Haben sie...this?" he cobbled together, wincing at the terrible combination of German and English.

The young woman nodded at him, blushing to the roots of her blonde hair. "Yes," she said in melodious, German-accented English. "I let you sleep. You were so tired."

Brian glanced at his watch. It was just gone ten at night. It was too late to call home. The children would be asleep, the children he loved so fiercely that he almost wept at the thought of them. But he could go to the studio. Surely they'd still be there; Freddie often did his best work late at night.

"Danke," Brian said as he scooped all the clothes into his suitcase. It was new and elegant, bearing no resemblance whatsoever to the thing he'd left St. Peter's with just that day.

Had he left just that day?

He searched his pockets, hoping against hope to find a battered candy bar. What he encountered instead were a wad of cash, the key to his flat, an empty Certs wrapper, and, inexplicably, one finger cymbal. He stared at the cymbal for a few moments, utterly clueless as to how it could have got there, then shoved it back in his pockets along with the other detritus. There would be time to sort everything out later.

He waved goodbye to the attendant, then grabbed his suitcase and his precious guitar and ran out into the street. He hailed the first taxi he found and clambered into the back seat, calling out the studio address. He needed to get to the studio right now, this instant. He had so much to say, to John and Roger and, most of all, to Freddie.

But first, he needed to make a purchase. He tapped the cabbie on the shoulder, indicating that he should wait, and jumped out into the street. He dodged the honking cars, looking right and left until he found a little shop. He grabbed the largest Cadbury Milk bar he could find, paid for it with a larger bill than necessary because he didn't want to waste time waiting for change, and got back into the taxi.

The driver, clearly thinking he was insane, clucked his tongue and started driving toward Musicland.

Mindless of the actual cost on the meter, Brian shoved the rest of his money at the cabbie with a maniacal grin and picked up his things. He burst through the front doors and ran down the hall toward the studio. John was standing against the wall, smoking a cigarette.

Wonderful, patient John, extraordinary musician, great drinking companion.

"Deacy!" Brian called out, somewhat breathless but still delighted.

John's eyes widened as he caught sight of Brian. "THERE you are! Roger's been going spare!"  
  
"Why?"

"WHY?" John waved his cigarette at the suitcase. "You stalked out of the session without a word, and when Ratty went to find you he discovered your suitcase was gone..."

"Oh, that," Brian gasped as he set the suitcase down and began running his fingers through his hair. All of his hair, all the curls and snarls and everything, not cut short and lacquered into place. "I had to do laundry."

"Christ, you're weird," John said after a few beats of silence. He looked Brian over with his keen grey eyes, then nudged his shoulder. "Leave a note next time, mate," he chuckled as he opened the door. "Go on in."

"Thanks, Deacy." Brian left the suitcase where it lay and immediately bumped into Roger.

Passionate, intelligent Roger, keeper of secrets, fiercest and best friend.

"Fucking hell, Bri!" Roger cried, wrapping his arms around Brian's waist. "We thought you'd packed it in and left us!"

Brian felt his throat tighten as he hugged Roger back. Whatever animosity he'd felt had dissipated with the...absence, however long or short.

"Brian? You okay?" Roger queried, eyebrows arched in concern.

"Yeah. I just...earlier? I remembered what you told me. About Freddie, and the school. It's got me unsettled, that's all."

"Huh? That? But I told you about that YEARS ago..."

Brian tousled Roger's hair. "And I won't say a word to Freddie about it," he promised with a wink that left Roger standing open-mouthed with confusion.

At last he made it into the control room to see Freddie. He wanted, needed, to throw his arms around him hold him forever.

But Prenter was right there at his side. Of course Freddie kept him there, thinking that he wasn't worthy of affection he hadn't purchased, and the thought made Brian want to vomit.

Prenter sneered at him as if he were an insect getting too close to his picnic, then turned back to Freddie. Freddie, at least, seemed glad to see him, dropping his cigarette and drink on the console in the exact place Mack was always warning them not to put things. "Brian, darling, where have you BEEN? I went to ask you to put a track on 'Life is Real,' but you were gone, and Ratty said you'd PACKED!"

"I just...had a lot of clothes to wash," Brian said earnestly, shooting a glare at Prenter. "So I needed my suitcase."

"All the same, darling, it gave us a fright. Don't DO that again, if you please!"

Brian felt as if he were on fire with everything he had learned on his "journey." He put a hand on Freddie's shoulder and squeezed. "Could I speak to you for a bit? Alone?"

Prenter snickered and Freddie frowned. "I really can't imagine why you'd need to see me alone, dear," he began, but when Brian tightened his hand and looked into his eyes, Freddie shrugged. "Paul, give us the room. In fact, let's just see you tomorrow."

"But we were going out with some guys tonight—"

Freddie turned to Prenter and waved in exasperation. "Put them off. If Brian needs to talk to me alone, that's what we'll do. Now, please run along and don't POUT, there's a pet." He waved Prenter out of the booth, much to Brian's inner satisfaction, then took a seat in Mack's chair. "What's the matter with you, Brian? Absolutely none of what you've done today makes any sense whatsoever!"

Brian could not have agreed more. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the candy bar. He handed it to Freddie, eager to see his response.

"I don't understand," Freddie said. "Brian, darling, are you quite all right?"

"I got this for you," Brian said. He knew he sounded like a madman but he didn't care. "I thought you'd like one."

Freddie laid the bar across his palm. "I haven't had one of these in absolute ages. I used to adore them when I was away at school." He blinked up at Brian, a charming, crooked smile blossoming on his lips. "How did you know?"

Laughing, shaking with relief, Brian plopped down into an empty chair. "Came to me in a dream, I suppose. You were in it, Fred." He couldn't get enough of the sight of Freddie, all grown up and loved by the entire world, just as he'd promised. Even if it had been a dream, even if this Freddie never knew THAT Brian, they were here, right now, and it was beautiful.

"A dream? Like 'The Wizard of Oz?' Like, 'Oh. Scarecrow, I think I missed you most of all?'" asked Freddie in a remarkable impression of young Judy Garland.

"Yes! Exactly! You know you can tell me anything, Freddie. Absolutely anything, right?" Brian declared, unable to tear his gaze away from Freddie's confused, astonished face. "I don't take good enough care of you. Of any of you. I'm really sorry about that."

Freddie stared at him, wide-eyed. "Brian, love, have you fallen down and hit your head on something?" He bounced out of his chair and sat on the arm of Brian's, putting his hand on Brian's forehead. "You feel a bit warm. Oh, God, you're not getting all hepatitis-y on us again, are you?"

"Freddie, I swear to you that I've never felt better." Brian grasped Freddie by the wrists and tugged him into an embrace, suddenly eager to reset the trajectory of Freddie's life. "Listen, you don't have to deal with Prenter and people like that. You...you deserve so much more. We'll take care of you ourselves, Rog and Deacy and I."

Not many people got to see Freddie Mercury at a loss for words. Freddie leaned into Brian's body and kissed the crown of his head. "But you're all so BUSY, so it's better if I let Paul take care of me."

"No, you don't get it," Brian insisted. By now Freddie was nearly in his lap, and Brian was almost in tears of joy at being with his friend again. "He's not really taking care of you. It's actually kind of shitty care. He's got you in every bar and every bed in Munich, and that's—"

Freddie drew back. "Be very careful of what you say next," he said softly, dangerously, but his fingers were still playing with Brian's hair.

"I'm sorry." The apology was out of fear more than contrition so he backtracked, hoping that planting the seed would be enough. "I just think you deserve...everything in the world."

"Mmm. I wouldn't mind that." Freddie huddled closer to Brian and reached for his candy bar. He unwrapped it and started breaking off small pieces.

"What're you doing?" Brian asked.

"Setting some aside for Roger and John. Does Mack like chocolate? Oh, of course he does, everyone does, so he gets a piece, too."

"Freddie, stop," grumbled Brian. "It's all for you."

"But it's just a few small—"

"Fred. Eat your bloody candy."

"I'll thank you to watch your FUCKING language, Maggie, darling."

They laughed together for a few moments, more than they had in weeks or months, and Brian felt a sense of peace that had been missing from his life for a very long time. He nestled against Freddie with a content little sigh.

Freddie's head bobbed up and down as he ate, his five o'clock shadow scratching against Brian's hair, then suddenly he stood up and put his hands on his hips in mock annoyance. "Still, it's positively libelous, all this talk about taking care of ME when it's clear I cannot let YOU out of my sight for ten seconds before you go absolutely PONCING off with a suitcase full of dirty clothes!"

"They're clean, now," Brian argued, weakly, and they started laughing again. Brian could see all the sweetness of the child in the fond smile of the man who peered into his face with such candid affection.

The boy and the man were both Freddie. HIS Freddie, who had been sent away from home at a tender age only to be abused, and yet grew into the most loving, gentle man Brian had ever known. Unexpectedly overwhelmed, Brian sank deeper into the chair and buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry," he mumbled as he fought off tears. "I'm such a judgmental arsehole. I should've paid more attention, I'm so sorry..."

Freddie was at his side in an instant, hugging him. "What on earth FOR?"

Brian could write a song lyric that would tear at the listener's soul, but for the life of him he couldn't express himself around Freddie. He tried, words lingering just at the tip of his tongue.  
  
_You were there when I was sick and..._  
_I wasn't patient when you needed..._  
_Sometimes I'd get so jealous of your voice..._  
_I didn't understand why you let people take advantage of you..._

"Now you're starting to scare me." Freddie lifted Brian's chin, looking at him with loving compassion. "Brimi, darling..."

He was powerless against the nickname. Brian leaned his forehead against Freddie's, remembering what he could have lost. "You're the best friend I have in this world, Freddie, and I love you so damn much—"

Freddie put a finger against Brian's lips. "Stop that right now, or you're going to make me cry!" he declared, his voice beginning to crack.

"But...mmph!"

It wasn't a finger against his lips this time; it was a piece of chocolate.

"Thank God, that's shut you up." Freddie took a bite of his own chocolate, then looked out over the studio as if lost in thought. "I can't imagine what brought this on in the first place," he began, mercifully not paying attention when Brian shuddered at the memory of his nightmare, "but it was a very strange thing for you to say, especially after you walked out on us without a word."

"I've had a strange day," Brian said thickly, still chewing the candy Freddie had stuffed in his mouth. "But I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"You certainly will not, or I'll put a bell on your collar." Freddie looped his arm around Brian's shoulders. "Or better still, I'll just hang on to you and never let go. How about that?"

Brian couldn't imagine a greater gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things that are, to the best of my knowledge, true:  
> Freddie went to St. Peter's School in Panchgani, Marahashtra, India.  
> O.D. Bason was headmaster from 1947-1974.  
> Freddie's piano teacher was a Mrs. O'Shea and his art teacher was a Mrs. Blossom Smith.  
> As mentioned before, he was sexually abused by a gardener named Sanjay.  
> The University of Bombay (now University of Mumbai) offered graduate degrees in Applied Mathematics in the 1950s and also offered weekend classes in astronomy.  
> The mascot of St. Peter's School is the phoenix and the motto is "Ut Prosim."
> 
> I couldn't find out which house Freddie was in, so I chose Cornwill because of the "Nil Desperandum" motto.
> 
> Everything else is drawn from inferences and my own weird imagination. Original characters' names were pulled randomly from an old address book, with no real intent to make them significant.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lydiannode - come talk to me!


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